Your Mileage May Vary
by Burnedtoasty
Summary: Hulk-Vs.-Wolverine 'verse: Deadpool's irritating, Omega Red's intrigued, the Weapon X wheels keep on turnin'.


**Disclaimer**: _Any and all characters displayed in this fic are the property of Marvel and the animation studio that did this short. No copyright infringement intended. Just playing in the sandbox.  
_**Fandom**: Marvel  
**Continuity**: Hulk vs. Wolverine [Weapon X]  
**Characters**: Deadpool, Omega Red  
**Summary**: Deadpool's irritating, Omega Red's intrigued, the Weapon X wheels just keep on turnin'.  
**Warnings**: Suggestive dialogue, and the inappropriate fondling of rifles. Minor, minor, microscopic spoilers?  
**Author's Note**: I admit, I did it for the laughs, but now I may start to ship it. Oh lawdy. 'Babies' exchange is directly from source material, because, I don't know, it sounded sort of suggestive the way he said 'shut up'? Also, took me absolutely forever to decide on a title, which is, in and of itself, incredibly sad.

--

"So, how do you feel about tentacle porn?"

Deadpool's rather _distinctive_ laugh echoes through the largely empty room, an unpleasant sound that is just a little too snide for Rossovich to completely brush off. He takes a breath – meant more to prepare himself for the inevitable stream of idiocy than an overt gesture of dislike (which it is, as well, but that's beside the point) – and turns himself about to stare flatly at Wilson, hoping it is enough to send him on his way and out of his sight.

"C'mon, ya gotta be into it, Red. All wiggly and whatnot."

Apparently any verbal reply from Rossovich is not needed; Deadpool waves his arms demonstratively, leaning against the gun rack and all-but oozing his delight at discovering this new game. "Do you even _get_ any feeling in your robo-arm-tentacly-things? What's the point if ya can't feel it, yeah? Or are you all Trojan – _for her pleasure_, right?"

"Wilson," Omega Red begins, calmly, civilly, because he _cannot_ allow himself to be riled by this idiot, "You will shut your mouth, or I will shut it for you." Most men would have stopped then – if they even had the temerity to provoke him so – and left. Ran, more likely. Most men, however, were not Wade Wilson, and most men, comparatively, were sane enough to know better.

"'Cause I'm all for the good porn, if it's done right, y'know?" Undeterred, Deadpool blithely goes on, edging into Omega Red's space by inches. "Yeah, a little _ooh_-ing and _aah_-ing and short breathing and even your weirdo-zappy-knockoff-tentacles could be kinda-sorta kinky. All bendy 'n'stuff. Hey, that's a thought! Do you ever—"

"—_Wilson_—"

"—Use 'em to get yourself off?" Deadpool wiggles his fingers suggestively, and cants his trim hips forward to further expound his rather obvious point.

There is a stunned silence. Rossovich works his mouth a few times, knowing what he should be saying, that he should be storming away or choking the little bastard but.

But.

"Man, this place has great acoustics! Just listen to that sweet echo: _hallooo_!" Wilson cocks his head to the side, putting a hand to his ear, miming straining for what is perfectly apparent in one of his typical, overdone gestures. "Yeah, sweet."

But then, subtlety had always been lost on Wilson.

Deadpool snickers again – at who or what is impossible to tell – and sways to the nearest gun, running one finger lightly over the barrel. Omega Red watches, and, despite better judgment, is silent. "There's all kinds of things you could do with a good set of tentacles, if you have the artistic flourish. Poking and prodding everywhere, yeah, and you can still keep your hands busy, if you know what I mean." He continues his examination of the weapon with an air of intense scrutiny, leaning in to inspect some microscopic detail and arching his back _just so_, free hand rising to rub at his chin thoughtfully while the other continues its not-so-subtle exploration of the rifle's stock. "Definite advantages. Perks. Et cetera, et cetera," Deadpool tilts his head down, twisting to incline himself partly at Rossovich, so he's bracing against the rack in – if it had been anyone else – an enticing, _inviting_ pose. "Lot's o' wiggle room."

It's obvious what Wilson is doing – or it _should_ be obvious, he _thinks_ it's obvious, but he's not so certain. Deadpool is hard to predict, or understand, and it could be honest malicious teasing or something more, but that irritating, lithe form is bending in all the right ways, and Omega Red can feel that stare down to the tips of his fingers and the bottoms of his toes.

It's not an entirely unpleasant sensation.

"Yeah," Deadpool breathes, thumbing the safety. "Fun stuff."

Rossovich is suddenly convinced Wilson is waggling his eyebrows at him, but it's so hard to tell with that stupid mask—

And just as abruptly, the spell is broken, and Wilson is straightening, chuckling to himself and strolling away from the rifle that had so captivated his attention a mere handful of moments before. "Man, does it freak people out? Do you even get laid? Chicks don't like snakes or octopuses, and I gotta say, you got a feel o' both going on," He shrugs apologetically, snagging another weapon off the rack with hardly a glance. "Creepy shit. Hey. What do you say after the mission we kill all those floating babies?"

Omega Red mightily suppresses the urge to lash out, to strangle him into silence – instead he hisses, perhaps a bit too gruffly, "Do you ever shut up, Wilson?" and refuses to acknowledge that niggling thought, tickling in the back of his mind, _there are better uses for that smart mouth._

"What, babies creep me out. Rock-a-by— _bang_! Neh-heh," Deadpool sniggers, his grin stretching the fabric of the mask as he ambles by Rossovich, selected rifle propped heedlessly against his shoulder. "Like fish in a bucket. Babies in jars."

Such an irritating little pest, but…

Well.

Rossovich stares after him – glowers after, really – eyes tracking that cocky saunter that sways up his entire back—

"Hey, Red," Deadpool pauses midstep, glancing back with something close to a teasing air. Rossovich's mouth goes a little dry, just for a moment, and rather than croak out some jumble of words, he inclines his head, just enough to convey, '_go on_'.

"Lookin' a bit wiggly there, bucko," Wilson caws, and slips around the doorway with a jaunty half-salute.

Omega Red – knowing what he should say, or that he should be storming off, or choking the bastard – hesitates only a moment longer, before following after.

There's always time for throttling later.


End file.
